


astronomy in reverse

by strangesmallbard



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Science, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29826888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangesmallbard/pseuds/strangesmallbard
Summary: Mary, Marisa, and the Laws of Physics.
Relationships: Marisa Coulter/Mary Malone
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	astronomy in reverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. An object at rest tends to stay at rest.
> 
> 2\. An object in motion tends to stay in motion.

If there is anything in all the worlds Marisa excels at, it is planning a party. Pairing color schemes for the décor, choosing the correct script for the invitations and oh, the guest list. How she enjoyed crafting a guest list. Which political pot shall she stir tonight, hmm? Which cards shall be in play? _A royal flush,_ Ozzy would chorus in their mind. Flush her system with dopamine. They could plan a party together, side-by-side. A little golden hand curling over her quill pen in the quiet of her home office. They could do that.

The party itself—another story. The dress had to be the envy of the function, and so it itched. The makeup pulled each simulacrum of her face into a ready-made simper. She must be approachable, but not soft. She must smell like a delicate rose and yet wield the only sword in the room. The men must think they have swords, however, when they only have arms that can flail and a tongue to cut.

Nevertheless. When Mary asked if she wanted a “small get-together” to celebrate her team's new publication, there was really only one answer.

"Hold on. You're putting Oliver with Nancy?" Mary says from the bed, holding one of her sticky notes. "I hope you enjoy passionate discussions of the Tube's hydraulics systems."

"Which is why I will be moving us to the other side of the room," Marisa says. She turns back to the dresser mirror with a striped button-down pressed against her front. She sighs. "You'll only have to put up with Hal for the first course."

"Hal is...well, his presentation last month on the Doppler Effect was—"

"Dull, dull, dull." Marisa holds up a grey button-down and immediately dismisses it. The host should never wear such a desolate shade. "It is fascinating how anyone can approach the mysteries of the universe with speech that could drive a brick wall mad with boredom."

Mary rolls her eyes and shakes that curly head, but ducks to have a private laugh. Finding those gaps in Mary's optimism still levers a thrill in Marisa's gut; in the very beginning of them it was the most crucial of games to find the little cracks in Mary's countenance during academic functions. It seemed impossible that one woman could manage grace and righteousness in the same light grip. It ought to be easy to chisel away until Mary came tumbling down and apart to meet her. Now, she only wants to know what Mary thinks. She delights in knowing.

"No, speechmaking is not Hal's forté—unless you bring up his prized roses." She considers his sticky note like it's a dataset. "Put him with Aria. I think she also gardens."

"She's a bore as well."

"You invited them, love."

"They are my friends," Marisa says. The word exits her mouth in a low-pitched garble. It still feels like a borrowed word and Marisa doesn't _borrow._ She steals. She schemes and steals and wins hearts only when the game is unfair and— "It's Linh who gardens. We have one of her orchids in the study." She pulls out another striped shirt from the closet, one with a silken fabric. "Tell me why I only just sent this to the cleaners and it is already wrinkled."

"One of the universe's many mysteries, I suppose." There's a pause. "Is it the pink one?"

"Orange."

"Oh, good. I got mustard on the pink one and I hadn't figured out how to tell you yet."

Look at you, she throws at the woman in the mirror. Eyebrows unkempt, hair tangled and tucked away at the back of her neck in a disgraced knot. The shirt she's wearing belongs to Mary: three sizes too large with Like a Black Hole, No Matter Escapes Me emblazoned across her chest. She wears no pants and a dirty pair of socks, dirty because they need to sweep the floor _again._ Mustard on the pink shirt. Everything in this house remains off-kilter despite the amount of brochures for cleaning services she brings home like orphaned, starved dogs. There are bags under Marisa's eyes and—oh, her lips are curling up. Mary is right there in the mirror too, after all, cross-legged and red-cheeked on their shared bed. Her smile is lovely.

"Well. Thank you for the confession before I go back to the cleaner's tomorrow." She attempts to smooth out a particularly harsh wrinkle on a sleeve to no avail. "Perhaps I'll wear the striped pants. They would be more slimming."

Mary's lovely smile slides away. She tilts her head and a crease forms between her eyes. This means she is about to say something too kind. Or Marisa has said something too unkind. Either prospect stirs tonight's glass of wine in her gut.

"I know that...this part means a lot to you. I'm happy to sit here and deliberate until the bell tolls. But this is a celebration for you, for all your achievements." She gestures to the whole of the chart spread over their coverlet. "I can promise that everyone here will care more about that than where you put the stripes."

"I will care," Marisa says. Plucks out the stinger before her body realizes she's been given a balm and not the familiar poison. "And I don't want..." Her reflection goes stricken, all angles and wobbles. Her tongue worries over words, each more pathetic than the last. _I don't want it to be important. I don't want anyone to comment. I don't want to care. I don't want to care_.

She closes her eyes, banishing the reflection—this world—away. She clutches the dresser and scrapes blunt nails on the smooth hardwood. She squeezes the shirt. She breathes a little too hard, but her throat is not tightening up and that, some would say, is an achievement.

One. Two. Three. All that. All this, for nothing at all. It is always like this. The shirt is still wrinkled and it is not yet tomorrow, when she can take it to the dry cleaners to be fixed. Outside this room, the night is quiet and still. There is no hole in the sky ready to set her free.

Four. Five. _Six._

When she finally opens her eyes, Mary is standing next to her. She leans on the dresser, watching in the mirror. All at once, Marisa buckles under her stare—the weight that's not a weight, that's the opposite of weight. She watches herself (for it _is_ herself, it must be) rest her face in the warm crook of Mary's neck and wills herself to believe the image true. It's all worth it for the hands sliding over her scalp, an arm around her waist, lips on her temple. She laughs and it comes out a wheeze and a truncated snort—a laugh she banished away into Ozzy's memory when she was small. Marisa sighs. "It just doesn't feel right. At all."

"The party?"

It is tempting to say _everything._ It is tempting to cry in Mary's arms about her long-lost daughter, like she's put them through so very often. It is tempting to shred the universe apart so she may nail her entire publication, printed under the name _Dr. Marisa Delamare PhD,_ to the forehead of whoever now champions the Consistorial Court of Discipline. But there is no hole in the sky. There is nothing to fear about a party. This conversation is about a party. "My seating chart. I'm having more second thoughts."

Mary laughs. It rumbles against Marisa's cheek like an animal's purr. Laughs, lovely smiles. Such dangerous things. Not dangerous at all. "Oh no."

She lifts her head. "You’ll like this idea."

"That depends, I think," Mary catches her hand, carefully rubs her knuckles, "on what that big brain of yours is fretting about now."

Marisa smiles. She is certain her smile is a red blotch on her face. She is certain Mary will never comment. "I don't fret. I have dignified concerns. About Hal and his roses."

"Marisa."

"Mary," she murmurs, draws her close and attempts to sway them from side to side. Away from the dresser, hopefully towards the bed. "Lovely Mary."

"Are you alright?"

Her tone is both gentle and firm. She will let it go if Marisa says she is alright, what a gift. That optimism levied directly in her corner. The crease is still there in the middle of her brow, however, which won't do. Marisa runs a thumb over it. Gentle. Gentle. She can be gentle. She holds Mary's face and ignores the crumpled shirt on the dresser in the corner of her vision, which will still be there in the morning. "I will be," she murmurs.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is hopefully the start to a series of vignettes. I'm currently taking a physics class (for...fun?) and applying physics concepts to Maryisa has been helpful while studying. I'm going to keep telling myself that, in any case. They will all take place in the AU where the Marisa wakes up in Mary's world post-abyss.
> 
> This first oneshot is a Femslash February prompt fill for elphabashepard on tumblr, who requested "The first time Marisa gets a paper published under her own name."
> 
> Title is from the song "Venus" by Sleeping At Last.


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